Excerpt from a novel about a government that pushed illiteracy….
https://www.gutenberg.org/files/18346/18346-h/18346-h.htm
NULL-ABC
BY H. BEAM PIPER AND JOHN J. McGUIRE
There’s some reaction these days that
holds scientists responsible for war. Take it one step further:
What happens if “book-learnin’” is held responsible ...?
Illustrated by van Dongen
Chester Pelton retracted his paunch as far as the breakfast seat would permit; the table, its advent preceded by a collection of mouth-watering aromas, slid noiselessly out of the pantry and clicked into place in front of him.
“Everything all right, Miss Claire?” a voice floated out after it from beyond. “Anything else you want?”
“Everything’s just fine, Mrs. Harris,” Claire replied. “I suppose Mr. Pelton’ll want seconds, and Ray’ll probably want thirds and fourths of everything.” She waved a hand over the photocell that closed the pantry door, and slid into place across from her brother, who already had a glass of fruit juice in one hand and was lifting platter covers with the other.
“Real eggs!” the boy was announcing. “Bacon. Wheat-bread toast.” He looked again. “Hey, Sis, is this real cow-made butter?”
“Yes. Now go ahead and eat.”
As though Ray needed encouragement, Chester Pelton thought, watching his son use a spoon—the biggest one available—to dump gobs of honey on his toast. While he was helping himself to bacon and eggs, he could hear Ray’s full-mouthed exclamation: “This is real bee-comb honey, too!” That pleased him. The boy was a true Pelton; only needed one bite to distinguish between real and synthetic food.
“Bet this breakfast didn’t cost a dollar under five C,” Ray continued, a little more audibly, between bites.
That was another Pelton trait; even at fifteen, the boy was learning the value of money. Claire seemed to disapprove, however.
“Oh, Ray; try not to always think of what things cost,” she reproved.
“If I had all she spends on natural food, I could have a this-season’s model ‘copter-bike, like Jimmy Hartnett,” Ray continued.
Pelton frowned. “I don’t want you running around with that boy, Ray,” he said, his mouth full of bacon and eggs. Under his daughter’s look of disapproval, he swallowed hastily, then continued: “He’s not the sort of company I want my son keeping.”
“But, Senator,” Ray protested. “He lives next door to us. Why, we can see Hartnett’s aerial from the top of our landing stage!”
“That doesn’t matter,” he said, in a tone meant to indicate that the subject was not to be debated. “He’s a Literate!”
“More eggs, Senator?” Claire asked, extending the platter and gesturing with the serving knife.
He chuckled inwardly. Claire always knew what to do when his temper started climbing to critical mass. He allowed her to load his plate again.
“And speaking of our landing stage, have you been up there, this morning, Ray?” he asked.
They both looked at him inquiringly.
“Delivered last evening, while you two were out,” he explained. “New winter model Rolls-Cadipac.” He felt a glow of paternal pleasure as Claire gave a yelp of delight and aimed a glancing kiss at the top of his bald head. Ray dropped his fork, slid from his seat, and bolted for the lift, even bacon, eggs, and real bee-comb honey forgotten.
With elaborate absent-mindedness, Chester Pelton reached for the switch to turn on the video screen over the pantry door.
“Oh-oh! Oh-oh!” Claire’s slender hand went out to stop his own. “Not till coffee and cigarettes, Senator.”
“It’s almost oh-eight-fifteen; I want the newscast.”
“Can’t you just relax for a while? Honestly, Senator, you’re killing yourself.”
“Oh, rubbish! I’ve been working a little hard, but—”
“You’ve been working too hard. And today, with the sale at the store, and the last day of the campaign—”
“Why the devil did that idiot of a Latterman have the sale advertised for today, anyhow?” he fumed. “Doesn’t he know I’m running for the Senate?”
“I doubt it,” Claire said. “He may have heard of it, the way you’ve heard about an election in Pakistan or Abyssinia, or he just may not know there is such a thing as politics. I think he does know there’s a world outside the store, but he doesn’t care much what goes on in it.” She pushed her plate aside, poured a cup of coffee, and levered a cigarette from the Readilit, puffing at it with the relish of the morning’s first smoke. “All he knows is that we’re holding our sale three days ahead of Macy & Gimbel’s.”
“Russ is a good businessman,” Pelton said seriously. “I wish you’d take a little more interest in him, Claire.”
“If you mean what I think you do, no thanks,” Claire replied. “I suppose I’ll get married, some day—most girls do—but it’ll be to somebody who can hang his business up at the office before he comes home. Russ Latterman is so married to the store that if he married me too, it’d be bigamy. Ready for your coffee?” Without waiting for an answer, she filled his cup and ejected a lighted cigarette from the box for him, then snapped on the video screen.
It lit at once, and a nondescriptly handsome young man was grinning toothily out of it. He wore a white smock, halfway to his knees, and, over it, an old-fashioned Sam Browne belt which supported a bulky leather-covered tablet and a large stylus. On the strap which crossed his breast five or six little metal badges twinkled.
“... Why no other beer can compare with delicious, tangy, Cardon’s Black Bottle. Won’t you try it?” he pleaded. “Then you will see for yourself why millions of happy drinkers always Call For Cardon’s. And now, that other favorite of millions, Literate First Class Elliot C. Mongery.”
Pelton muttered: “Why Frank sponsors that blabbermouth of a Mongery—”
Ray, sliding back onto the bench, returned to his food.
“Jimmy’s book had pictures,” he complained, forking up another mixture of eggs, bacon, toast and honey.
“Book?” Claire echoed. “Oh, the instructions for the ‘copter?”
“Pipe down, both of you!” Pelton commanded. “The newscast—”
Chester Pelton retracted his paunch as far as the breakfast seat would permit; the table, its advent preceded by a collection of mouth-watering aromas, slid noiselessly out of the pantry and clicked into place in front of him.
"Everything all right, Miss Claire?" a voice floated out after it from beyond. "Anything else you want?"
"Everything's just fine, Mrs. Harris," Claire replied. "I suppose Mr. Pelton'll want seconds, and Ray'll probably want thirds and fourths of everything." She waved a hand over the photocell that closed the pantry door, and slid into place across from her brother, who already had a glass of fruit juice in one hand and was lifting platter covers with the other.
"Real eggs!" the boy was announcing. "Bacon. Wheat-bread toast." He looked again. "Hey, Sis, is this real cow-made butter?"
"Yes. Now go ahead and eat."
As though Ray needed encouragement, Chester Pelton thought, watching his son use a spoon—the biggest one available—to dump gobs of honey on his toast. While he was helping himself to bacon and eggs, he could hear Ray's full-mouthed exclamation: "This is real bee-comb honey, too!" That pleased him. The boy was a true Pelton; only needed one bite to distinguish between real and synthetic food.